


If I Could Be Selfish Enough

by poisontaster



Series: Transmutation [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Five Stages of Grief, Multi, Polyamory, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-04
Updated: 2006-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And finally, we get Sam's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Be Selfish Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Transmutation](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/152309) by mona1347. 



**Part 1. Denial.**

The thing is, for as much as his Dad or Dean call him selfish, Sam knows it isn't true. Not in this most fundamental way. Because never in all of his most cracked out, fevered, longing dreams would he have allowed himself to believe this was possible. That he could have this.

That seemed selfish; that seemed too selfish for words.

And yet here he is.

Dean and Jess. Jess and Dean.

He didn't plan to love Jess, he really didn't. With the distance of a few years and an absence that still aches even now that it's over, Sam is willing and able to admit that he was naively, _stupidly_ in love with his brother when he left. And with the callowness of anyone with their first love, he'd never imagined there'd be room in his heart for anyone else, for anyone who wasn't Dean.

But with Dean—or really, with Dad—he was never going to feel safe. There was never going to be anything but a series of questions: _This time? Is it now? Is this the job that's going to take them (him) from me? Is this the time I end up alone?_ And that uncertainty…or rather that terrible certainty, that there was no other way for this to end, tore him apart and shredded him day after day until the only thing he felt like he could do _was_ escape.

But for all Dean kids him about his brain, in some ways he's always been two steps behind his big brother and Sam learned yet another lesson too late: there are no escapes. There's nowhere to go that is safe and nothing that can't be taken from you.

Dean and Jess. Jess and Dean.

When they pulled Jess down—saved her—when they sat vigil all those hours in the hospital, there was never any question that Dean would be there, that Dean would stay. And Sam was so grateful for that. So insanely grateful. But it wasn't gratitude that put him in that stairwell and put Dean's mouth on his cock while Jess struggled to breathe on her own and find her way back into her own flesh. It was still that same terrible, twisted, undying love.

Because he loves Dean. He's never stopped loving Dean. And even if Jess has her own place and space inside him, it's not…none of it is taken away from Dean. Dean never lost anything other than Sam's physical presence and a measure of his trust _in_ Sam. And so Sam can hate himself and wish that things are simple, that things are _clean_ but the truth is that having Dean is one of two things that's ever made any sense to him.

The other, of course, being Jess herself. He wants to touch her—of course he does. He wants to wrap himself around her. He wants to protect her and at the same time he wants to abase himself in front of her, apologize to her for letting her make the most grievous error of loving him. He thinks she must hate him. He can't see any way that she can _not_. Dean hates him, surely Jess must as well.

And then she lived. And she came with them. _Demanded_ to come with them. And when he can steel himself to look at her, when he can brace himself to meet the rage that lives and breathes from her very skin, he finds her looking at Dean.

The sheared and broken halves of his heart and they hate each other and it's his fault, his fault, his most grievous fault.

**Part 2. Anger.**

Fucking fuck, fuck fuck…

Fucking… _slut_.

And the thing is, he expected this kind of thing from Dean. Dean's never been able to keep his zipper up for Sam's whole life, whether it's Sam's ass he's slipping into or just the local floozy at the local bar. And Sam loves his brother and Sam loves the way his brother turns his body inside out and that's just one of those things you have to put up with, with Dean.

But Jess.

Jess.

Sam slams his fist into the brick of the façade over and over again, not hard enough to break the bones, but definitely hard enough to make his knuckles split and bleed. He's screaming through his teeth, this wordless and inarticulate fury that sickens and frightens him even as it engulfs his brain in a forest fire of spiraling hate.

He'd been shopping for rings. He'd been shopping for _rings_ , going without his lunch or anything else remotely frivolous for months because a boy on a scholarship can't afford anything decent otherwise. He'd tutored on top of his own study-load and his shifts at the bar and he'd _shopped for rings_ and now that whore is in there fucking his brother, gasping and moaning and growling like she never did with him, like a little wildcat on a string and he can't, he can't…

He wants to kill them. He wants to kill them both. Dean for dragging him back into this, for dragging _Jess_ into this and trying to make them some fucked up version of the family he used to have instead of knowing when to leave well enough the fuck alone. None of this would have happened if Dean hadn't come for him with those pleading eyes and cracking voice. If Dean had just let Dad do whatever the fuck it is that Dad's doing, the same way Dad always fucking does. Sam would be _on his way_. On his way to normal, on his way to safe. On his way to a pretty, smart wife and maybe a couple of kids that wouldn't ever have to be afraid of the dark or what would come out of it. On his way to a life without nightmares and this constant sick churning in your stomach that today might be your good day to die.

And Jess. Jesus, she's no better. Her parents would have paid to fix her face. She—they—could have gone back to their life, even without the surgery. She's still…God, excepting Dean, she's his everything. They could have started over. With the truth. He would have finally been able to show her…everything. Or…if not everything—because Dean (fucking Dean) won't be a topic he's bringing up in this lifetime—then enough of it to make do. To be happy. But instead, she just dove into this. Cast off her whole life like a shed skin and took to life in the Impala, life on the road, like this was what she'd planned, what she'd _meant_ to do all the time and giving him no choice but to follow, because he's responsible for her. In all the senses of that word. If not A, then B. If not Dean, tugging Sam like a pull-toy on a string, then Jess.

And he hates it. He hates this fucking life. He hates being afraid. He hates the constant sense of worry. He hates feeling like his brother and his girl have this whole new language between them, this kinship and he— _he_ —is the one that gets left on the outside of the circle, when Dean was _his_ and Jess was _his_ and now he guesses they're each other's and Sammy is just ass fucking out.

He hates that he's three stories down and he can still _hear_ her—them—rutting in the flickering light of the TV, Jess's high pitched moans and Dean's deeper ones flicking and echoing off the brick to him like little stabbing knives. He hates that he's going to have to go back up there and look at them both and know and remember, because they're all he has left now and if he doesn't have them then he's got nothing.

He hates that he can't hate them more; can't hate them enough to stop loving them, loving them both, even when he doesn't even know if they love _him_ anymore.

When he doesn't know if anyone does.

Including himself.

**Part 3. Bargaining**

If I kill this monster, if I shoot it dead, then there's one less monster out there to hurt someone like Jess.

_(Lord, hear our prayer.)_

If I let my girl fuck my brother, then maybe it's not so bad that I fuck him too.

_(Lord, hear our prayer.)_

If I don't say anything, then maybe I can stop myself from screaming on the inside.

_(Lord, hear our prayer.)_

If I suck my brother's cock, then maybe he'll still love me, want me, need me, even though I left him, even though I'm cursed, even though I'm no damn good to anybody including myself.

_(Lord, hear our prayer.)_

If I don't touch Jess, maybe she won't want me dead for doing this to her, for taking her life and only giving her this in return—a body of her own scars and the knowledge of just how deep the darkness goes.

_(Lord, hear our prayer.)_

If I am small, if I am quiet, if I pretend that I'm not here, then maybe they'll forget and then they won't leave me behind, leave me alone.

Please God, please, please.

But he doesn't know what to ask for. Prayers never get answered anyway. Ask Dean.

**Part 4. Depression.**

This isn't going to work.

There's no way this _can_ work, which means he's just biding time as Dean turns Jess in into his surrogate Sammy (except better, because Jess _wants_ to be here, Jess _likes_ being here, like this, a hunter, taking to it with the same deadly ease Dean had). No bitching about bow hunting for her, oh no, she's Dean's star fucking pupil and every time, _every fucking time_ Dean looks at him, his eyes sparkle as if to say: _See? See how shiny she is? How much better?_

In his more paranoid moments, his brain will add: _And she's a better fuck too, man. Damn._

_(Sam._

_Sam, c'mon, man._

_You gotta eat._

_You need to eat something.)_

"Not hungry," he sighs and stops staring at the ceiling long enough to focus on Dean's face over his. Dean's lip is split and scabbing where Jess forgot to pull her punch. Or maybe she didn't; she and Dean might be fucking, but it doesn't seem to have improved how well they get along. Dean's also got a near-matching gash through his eyebrow where she whacked him one with a stick, practicing staff fighting.

Sam closes his eyes and turns on his side, burying his face in the pillow so he can at least pretend to sleep. Sleeping is a lot like eating—more effort than it's worth—and he doesn't have much use for either lately. His jeans, never real snug, don't shift with him and bunch at his crotch. Fixing it seems like too much trouble, though, and so he doesn't bother. He feels conscious of Dean's eyes on the wide strip of his skin bared by the maneuver, between the twisted hem of his shirt and the top of his boxers; wonders if Dean will touch him, fuck him, or whether this is the start of how it all ends, his replacement complete. His only remaining purpose voided for a tight cunt and sweet set of tits.

But Dean settles on the bed's edge as Sam thought (hoped) he would, his weight pulling Sam back toward him, and splays his fingers over that naked bit of Sam's skin.

 _Pity fuck,_ Sam thinks, with perverse satisfaction. _Just because she's not here. Just because I am._

Though he has to confess, they've been remarkably discreet for people who live as much under each other's skin as they do. He's only even smelled Dean on her the one time.

_(Sam._

_Please don't do this._

_You've got to snap out of it.)_

Though he supposes he could say the same of him and Dean. Not that he really expects her to know—or even entertain the possibility of—what they smell like, mingled. He's had his whole life to memorize that scent: _SamandDean_ and it's only now he finds it changed into something unrecognizable. Something almost familiar but changed and mutated.

Dean's fingers are really warm against that goose-pimpled stripe of Sam's skin, skimming back and forth in absent caress. Sam finds himself yearning into every touch Dean gifts him with, unsure if it'll be the last.

It's only a matter of time, after all.

And probably not much time.

He wonders if this is the sum purpose of his life; to introduce Jess to Dean, to the Winchester way of life, his penance and atonement in one pink-blonde package, and now that it's done, he'll just flake away like a scab, a fragment of dead blood no longer needed. He wonders what he'll do when they inevitably leave him.

He can't go back to Stanford.

Even if it wasn't forever tainted by memories, even if he could deal with the barrage of intrusive yet well-meaning questions and concern, how can he face any of those people again with any semblance of pride or calm, knowing he's lost his girl to his brother? And his brother to his girl?

Besides. Any future he _thought_ he'd have is irrelevant now. As he is. Even if he could bring himself to care, it's been made excruciatingly clear to him that there _is_ no normal life for a Winchester. This is as good as it gets, the most he can expect from his Dad, or Jess, or Dean or Life or anybody.

_(Sam. C'mon._

_We can even go out if you want, I don't care._

_But you gotta eat something, man._

_I need you strong._

_You're wasting away to nothing.)_

Finally, sick of Dean yapping at him and his cock an incongruously hard line against his thigh, Sam turns over in a vicious, compact rush, using his height and weight to pin Dean down while he wrestles Dean's belt and zipper open.

_(Oh._

_Oh God. Sam._

_Sam, we can't._

_She's going to come back, dude._

_She's going to catch us.)_

"She won't," Sam lies, because he knows nothing of the sort. He licks and slurs his way from Dean's soft, tender sac, up the rigid length of him to take a long suck and pull from the firm-soft head, Dean spurting oilily against his tongue. Dean's head falls back and he whimpers weakly, fingers skidding helplessly over Sam's head.

_(Sam. Oh._

_Oh, wait. Please. Wait._

_We can't, dude. We can't._

_Sam…)_

Sam's fingers tighten on Dean's thighs, thumbs digging hard into the muscle so there will be bruises. So there will be reminders. _Sam was here, bitches_. "I need it," he says simply, brutally, and it's not a lie. "Just…let me taste you, let me suck you, let me have you down my throat."

And he's not waiting for okay, he's not waiting for anything, he's just jerking Dean around so he can kneel between those rigid, familiar thighs and take Dean's cock—which is really his, always and only _his_ —into him. "Mine," he says, but it only comes out a humming moan around Dean down his throat, deeper than he's ever been able to take him before—desperation does wonderful things for your blow-job technique, he'll have to keep that in mind—and he's jerking and pulling at his own zipper, reaching to close cool fingers around his cock. _Don't leave me,_ he wants to say, too, but he lacks the courage for that one. Not because the hypocrisy there is thick enough to cut with one of Jess's knives, but because after what he's done, who he's been, he doesn't see any way the answer can be anything other than _Goodbye, Sam._

 _You need me,_ he thinks, but it's a lie. Dean has never needed him. Dean tells himself that he does, but that was when he really had nothing else _but_ Sam and Sam's always been just waiting for the day that Dean realizes that. _I need you_ is the truth and he makes no bones about begging if he has to, but the fear that he can't unstick from his heart is that if he says it, Dean will only laugh at him. He deserves it. He knows it. He hasn't earned what he has—had.

Two people that he loves most in this world and he's managed to fuck them both up. Because—delusions of normalcy, of decency, aside—that's the kind of guy he is. Dean's thumb runs over Sam's cheek, touching Sam, touching himself in Sam and Sam feels his eyes burn even through the wetness.

_(Sam._

_God, your mouth._

_Your evil fucking mouth._

_You see what you do to me?_

_Do you even know?)_

 

**Part. 5. Acceptance.**

"Do you love him?" Sam asks her finally, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore. There's him and there's Dean and somehow Jess is there with them and between them and it's all tangled up and he just…doesn't know anymore. He's forgotten how this is all supposed to go.

"Don't you?" Her answer prickles with all the rage that seethes from her skin and he flinches because it's not what he meant, not what he meant at all. He's sleepy and exhausted and he feels raw all the way through, bleeding at the edges; he shouldn't be saying anything in the first place when he's like this. But…

Dean…she fucks Dean, she fucks both of them, but she doesn't know Dean like he does. She still doesn't pull her punches, not realizing how delicate Dean can be under surface toughness. She doesn't understand that Dean's heart is only held together by duct tape and spit and sheer stubbornness and it's only a crooked patch job at that because Sam keeps tearing pieces away.

He doesn't know her either. She's not the happy, golden girl he remembers from California—which already seems like one of his dreams and not real at all. She is so angry, this Jess, bitter and rageful and so sharply razor-edged you could cut yourself to the core on her and never realize it, bleeding to death. All this time, he's been trying to talk to that old girl, that dead girl, never once realizing the woman who's taken her place.

 _I still love you,_ he wants to say to her, but it sounds weak to him, like he's somehow taking the lesser option and that's a bigger lie than almost any of the others.

 _I still love Dean._ He doesn't want to say that one, though he guesses from her question she already knows. They haven't talked about it. They sleep together, hunt together, do every thing together but they don't talk about it. Sam guesses she's a Winchester now, after all, absorbing that first, most important lesson without being told: _we do what we do and we shut up about it._

He doesn't know what she thinks of him now, if she's disgusted by the fact that he fucks (loves) his brother. He doesn't know what's in her heart and the scarring's made sure he can't read what's on her face. There's only this terrible uncertainty.

"It's okay, Sam," she says then, after he thought the conversation was done with, the Cone of Silence lowered once again. She reaches over and touches him, small sliding fingers caressing over his cheek, down his throat to lie warm on his chest. He can feel every separate finger. It's been a long time since they've had this—touch that isn't sexual or the functionalities of sparring and wound care—it hurts him now, how much he misses this. He spreads his hand between and over the curve of her breast, feeling her strong, new heart thud against his palm. "I get it now," she says and his breath catches. "I love you. I love you both."

His breath sighs out and, with the arm curved over her head, he brushes across Dean's naked, freckled shoulder. Dean mutters a little and shifts toward them in his sleep, his face so open. So soft.

He hasn't earned this, he knows that. He doesn't know what a person could possibly do to earn something this amazing, this unexpected, this full of joy, like a diamond pulled from the sewer, but he thinks if he can just _have_ this, even for a little while, he'll spend the rest of his life trying to be good enough for it.

 _I love you too,_ he breathes. _I love you both more than anything._

But that might have been a dream.


End file.
